


Let those I love try to forgive what I have made

by hope_calaris



Series: What being Mark's PA really means [1]
Category: Social Network (2010)
Genre: Allergies, Fix-It, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-04
Updated: 2011-12-04
Packaged: 2017-10-26 21:20:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/288046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hope_calaris/pseuds/hope_calaris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mark has always cared for Wardo in his own way. That doesn’t stop because of a lawsuit. (or: The five times Mark did something nice during/post-deposition and the one time Wardo finally noticed and they lived happily ever after)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let those I love try to forgive what I have made

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** The moment unicorns are real, I make money with this. Title and chapter breaks are taken from one of my favorite poems, “Canto CXX” by Ezra Pound.

_[i]_

Mark hadn’t known he’d feel like this during deposition. He’s still a bit shell-shocked that they’re here at all, that Wardo is actually _suing_ him. And apparently Wardo suing him means also _I’ll never ever speak to you unless I’m forced to do so by my lawyers_ and _oh, by the way, Mark, you’re an asshole_. Wardo isn’t the first person to have called him an asshole, he’s just the first person who made the word really hurt.

And now they’re here and it’s all more than surreal, because he’d never wanted this. Sure, he had wanted Wardo out of the company, but not out of his life. Mark had had a company to protect, but in doing so he’d left himself wide open to get hurt.

And yes, it does hurt. Sitting here and facing Wardo over an impossible wide table day after day hurts. It’s no consolation that Wardo looks as bad as Mark feels. Nope, no consolation at all. If possible, Wardo looks even worse when that particular day is over and everybody but Gretchen and Mark have already left the room -- Wardo hasn’t looked at him.

“Hi,” Mark says hesistantly and rounds the table.

“Mr Zuckerberg,” Gretchen says and it sounds like a question. He takes the tea tin out of his bag and holds it out to her.

“It’s his favorite tea, a Brazilian blend, and he likes to drink it when he’s … feeling down.”

Silently she takes the tea and nods at him. The look in her eyes is suddenly softer than during the whole days before.

“Please don’t tell him it’s from me, he’d probably trash … tell him it came up during your research and you want to be nice or earn a pay raise.” He turns around and tries to breathe evenly when he walks away.

“Your secret is safe with me,” he hears Gretchen say before he closes the door behind him.

 _[have]_

“We’re not doing it,” he says sternly and means it. This is getting ridiculous. Only because he’s getting sued doesn’t mean he’s going to stoop so low and accuse Wardo of something Mark knows for certain he’d never do.

“But it could help our case immensely,” Sy argues in his best _I know better_ -voice. Mark starts to hate it.

“It’s bullshit. He didn’t torture the chicken. I _know_ it. I was _there_.” Back when they were still best friends and nothing was more ridiculous than reading the story in _The_ _Crimson_.

Apparently it doesn’t mean shit that he’s the youngest billionaire in history and that he pays these lawyers a fortune, because it still comes up during the depositions. He really could have done without the renewed look of betrayal on Wardo’s face.

Later that day he drives over to the law firm and strides into Sy’s office as if he can buy the building and the firm with his weekly income alone -- just for the record, he really can.

“If you ever -- _ever_ act against my explicit wish again I’ll walk away from this firm and the only thing left behind will be dust.” He stares at Sy. “Do we understand each other?”

Sy nods slowly, and on the way out Mark barely refrains from slamming the door.

 _[tried]_

Wardo barely says anything that day, but he pinches the bridge of his nose a lot and rubs his temples in circles. Mark knows he has a migraine and that the bright light of the sun hurts his eyes. He’s seen it often enough. At the end of the day the sun is gone, but Wardo also looks about ready to lose his lunch. Mark wonders if nobody else notices or if they just don’t care -- if all they see is the money they’re getting out of this. For a second he ponders if that’s the only thing Wardo sees as well, and then he decides that he doesn’t believe this. Whatever this is really about for Wardo -- and one day Mark is going to find out -- money is only a substitute for something.

Finally, Gretchen takes pity on Wardo and ends the meeting. Wardo makes it out of the room after her on trembling legs and looks utterly relieved that it’s over for the day and horrified that he has to do the same thing tomorrow again. And maybe Mark can’t give Wardo what he really wants right now -- he’s determined to do it sometime, though -- but he can give him a day off to get well again.

“I’m not coming in tomorrow,” he says to Sy, who’s packing his things next to him. “Tell Gretchen we’ll have to postpone the next meeting a day.”

“May I ask why?” Sy is smart enough not to disagree with him again.

“No,” Mark says and he knows he sounds like an asshole, but he doesn’t care. This is for Wardo and nobody needs to know. “Just do it. I’m sure you’ll find a suitable excuse … important staff meeting or me being an arrogant asshole or something like that.”

 _[to]_

This is probably the part he’s dreaded the most, because from all the things his actions have destroyed between Wardo and him, that’s the one which really makes him question his decision.

“My father won’t even look at me,” Wardo whispers and Mark can’t listen anymore, because he _knows_. He knows -- probably better than anybody in this room except for Wardo -- how hard Wardo works for his father’s approval and how difficult it is to get it. And now he’s lost it thanks to Mark’s scheming and it doesn’t matter that Wardo made a bad bussines decision, not really. Not when he did it because he trusted too much, a trait Mark has always admired and Wardo’s father has detested him for.

And now it’s late, and Mark is sitting in the dark living room of his house and looks over the illuminated cityscape. Wardo’s words echo in his head and he grabs his phone and sends Wardo a message.

 _For what it’s worth, you’re father is wrong about you. Mark_

Wardo doesn’t answer him.

 _[write]_

Mark thinks that shareholder meetings are stupid in general, because he knows how to do his job, thank you very much, and he has better things to do but listen to his PR -- and Chris is going to kill him if he says this aloud -- brag about how well Facebook is doing. Everybody knows this anyway. But it’s six months after the settlement and it will be the first time he’s going to see Wardo again. He doesn’t know if he’s excited or scared to death, but he’s pretty sure that there’s enough booze so he won’t care either way.

However, before they bring out the booze there are the presentations -- boring as expected -- and they serve hors d’oeuvre. Mark was all for leaving that part out and going straight for the booze, but Chris was particulary insistent on this -- older, sophisticated shareholders and so on. Mark couldn’t care less about these people, but he nevertheless nibbles on something he can’t name and eyes Wardo from afar. He looks better these days, even somewhat relaxed -- that is as long as Mark stays on his side of the room. Mark chews on the still unidentified piece of haute cuisine when he tastes it. Shellfish, and nothing in the look of the hors d’oeuvre gives away its contents. He swallows and winks his assistant. Hannah is a really nice and long-suffering person, and Dustin has told him more than once that screaming will only get him less Red Bull and nothing else from her -- and no, he’s not allowed to fire her because she’s awesome at what she does and actually takes Mark’s antics with humor -- , but he’s really close to yell at her right now.

“Hannnah, didn’t I tell you specificially _not_ to order shellfish?”

“You did.”

“Then why did I just taste it?”

Her eyes go wide and she shoots a quick look at the waiters with the trays walking around. “I have no id -- oh.”

“Hannah?” He says and tries get a look at Wardo and if he’s eating anything. He’s not and Mark’s legs feel shaky.

“Sean said he’d give the list to the caterer,” Hannah explains and has the decency to look guilty for letting him do her work.

“Sean,” Mark repeats and Hannah nods. Mark tries to rack his brain if Sean knows about Wardo’s shellfish allergy or if this is just a coincidence. He doesn’t believe in those, though, and wikipedia tells you practically everything these days. “Talk to the waiters and get rid of everything with shellfish in it.”

“Of course,” she says and hurries off. Mark walks over to Chris and draws him away from his group by his shirt sleeve.

“Mark,” Chris hisses, “this is no appropriate behavior for the CEO of -- ”

“Shut up and go over to Wardo.”

“What? Why?”

“Distract him from eating anything until I give you the okay.”

“You know that this sounds creepy outside your own head, right?” Chris looks as if he’s trying really hard not to freak out on him. “You’re not trying to poison him, are you?”

“Are you insane?” Mark glares at him. “Of course not, he’s my best -- nevermind. Sean changed my orders to the caterer and now they serve shellfish.”

“Shit.” Chris’ eyes go wide, because of course he too remembers that one incident back at Harvard when they all had no clue and thought Wardo was going to die on them.

“Yes, so go over and make sure he doesn’t have to use his EpiPen. Bad for publicity.”

“Yeah, bad for publicity,” Chris repeats slowly, as if he’s trying to find out the hidden meaning in the words. “Don’t you … er … don’t you think maybe you should go and -- ”

“No,” Mark cuts him of. “I have to go and talk to Sean.”

The next day, Sean clears his desk in the Facebook office and doesn’t come back.

 _[paradise]_

It’s a week after the shareholder meeting and somebody rings Mark’s door, which doesn’t happen unless he’s ordered pizza -- and he didn’t. For a second or so he contemplates not to answer, because he’s really not fond of paparazzi following him all the way from the office to his home, but then he’s curious and gets up to open the door.

It’s dark outside, but still he has no trouble at all to recognize Wardo. He wonders if one can overdose on Red Bull, but surely Hannah would have told him by now on her crusade to convert him to water and tea.

“Hi,” Wardo says, as if it’s the most normal thing on earth to stand on Mark’s porch in the dark six months and a week after Mark had written him a check over six hundred million dollars.

“Hi,” Mark replies and steps aside to let Wardo in, because it’s as simple as that -- he never learnt to not let Wardo in, somewhere along the way Wardo just stopped _wanting_ to come in. Wardo doesn’t move, though, and it’s hard to make out his face in the faint orange streetlight, when everything’s more shadows than light.

“Why did you do it?” Wardo asks, and he sounds confused.

“Why did I do what?”

“All of it.” Wardo sighs. “The tea, the chicken, the day off, the text message, Sean … ”

“Shit, you know that?”

“It took me a while, but yes … Chris may be awesome at PR, but he can’t lie to his friends to save his life. From then on it was only a matter of asking the right people.”

“I … ” Mark shrugs. “Only because you sued me doesn’t mean I stop being friends with you,” he says the first thing that comes to his mind, and it’s true.

“That’s your explanation? That easy?”

“It’s the only explanation I have.”

“Unbelievable,” Wardo says and walks back to the steps of the front porch. He sits down and rests his chin on his arms crossed over his knees. Mark hesitates for a moment, but he can’t leave Wardo out here all alone now that he’s finally back. He sits down next to him, their knees just about touching. The street in front of them is deserted and the light is flickering.

“I don’t want you to go again.”

“You -- what?” Wardo turns his head to him.

“Back in that house in Palo Alto, in that corridor -- I never wanted to leave you behind. I … ” he draws a deep breath because this is important, he can’t screw this up. “I said I needed you. I still need you,” he whispers.

“You … Mark, you can’t just say stuff like … fuck,” Wardo says and rests his forehead against the heels of his hands.

“But it’s true. I need you. And I’m sorry for everything I’ve put you through. And I want you to forgive me and I want to make you tea and say fuck you to your father and to Sean and I don’t want you to die because you ate shellfish and suffocated. I think I love you too much for this.” And now it’s out there, part of the night and the surreal scene of Wardo sitting on the step of his front porch, and he can’t take it back even if he wanted.

Wardo draws a shuddering breath and stares at him. His eyes are impossible wide and the white stands out against the shadows surrounding them. Mark doesn’t let himself hope, but then Wardo leans into him and the kiss is tender and Mark closes his eyes because he’s afraid he’s only dreaming. But he’s not, or if, then it’s the best dream in his entire life, because Wardo’s lips are soft against his, and it doesn’t matter that the angle is off and Mark probably smells too much of Red Bull. This is perfect.

“I don’t want to leave either,” Wardo whispers, their foreheads pressed together and their eyes closed. “I never wanted to leave.”

“Then don’t. The door is open.”

“Okay … okay,” Wardo says quietly and he reaches for Mark’s hand and their fingers intertwine into one another.

[fin]


End file.
